And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 66 "O how, deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw, myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man: And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut, And monie a huntit poor red-cuat, For fear amaist did ewarf, man.' My sister Kate cam up the gate, They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang, I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch, A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' good fellowship sowthers it a': Blind chance, let her snapper stoyte on her way, Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain; My warst ward is--" Welcome, and welcome again! THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. APRIL, 1795. TUNE "Push about the Jorum.' DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat? Ere we permit a foreign foe Fall de rall, &ci. O let us not, like snarling tykes, For never, but by British hands, The kettle o' the kirk and state, * A high hill at the source of the Nith. † A well-known mountain at the mouth of the Solway. But deil a foreign tinkler loun Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought Fall de rall, &c. 'The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-born brother, Who will not sing, "God save the King," But while we sing, “God save the King," Fall de rall, &c. CALEDONIA. TUNE -"Humours of Glen." THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave: Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave. The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views with disdain: He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. TUNE "Gin a Body meet a Body" GIN a body meet a body, Comin' thro' the rye; Need a body cry? Nane, they say, hae I! Yet a' the lads they smile at me, When comin' thro' the rye. I dearly lo'e mysel'; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body, Comin' frae the town |